


On Flight

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, wing!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where feathers appear out of nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Flight

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely Sam~! Wing!fic isn't something I do often, but this is an idea that's been working its way around my head in bits and pieces, and during yet another late night jennastream (you should join them; they are fab!), this one kind of finally all clicked together. I hope you enjoy!

[lovely [cover ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/774411)by [catonspeed](http://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)]

 

Q builds.  He invents, he creates, he dreams.  Each day, he grows closer to the goals he's set, shedding them like molted feathers for newer, loftier goals.  Bond sees the curling shape eventually, the shadow-furl of genius hunched over his shoulders: a thousand ideas, each one light and buoyant on its own becoming thick and matted and heavy together.  And no one will understand how something intended to lift you up can weight you down; he leaves the first on Q’s desk, small and white and pure, while Q is sneaking cigarettes on the fire escape.  He watches the confused pleasure steal over Q’s face as he strokes it, glancing around the room.  Bond’s had the feather tucked inside his jacket pocket since Belize, and only now understands why.

He watches.  Q is like a bird, quiver-boned and restless, all fluffed hair and sharp, inquisitive eyes.  And Bond is growing fond of him, of the way he perches at his computer and flies, unwilling to sit for more than a moment before moving on.  Q’s affection is sharp-toothed, biting and unexpected—when he realizes, finally understands, that Q has a smile that’s just for him…it hits him so hard he stares and Q laughs, low and mocking and sweet.  He rewards him with another feather tucked between the pages of a book, a feather that leaves Q confused, stroking the white slip with absent fingers.

They argue.  Q takes unnecessary chances, Bond unnecessary risks, neither of them willing to acknowledge the reason they’re furious.  Bond sulks; away on a mission in Prague, he’s injured in a way that leaves Q breathlessly furious, and when he returns, disoriented and leaning slightly left, he’s caught sneaking a pinion into Q’s office by way of apology.

“I want you to stop this, Bond,” Q says, eyes cold and sharp.  Bond clutches the feather in his hand, folds it against his chest until it’s hidden by the sling.  It’s too large, ridiculous.

“Stop what?” he asks.

“The reminders,” Q says, and Bond is confused, tipping his head.  “It took me a long time,” Q continues, the edges of a truly righteous anger sneaking in, “but I remembered.  And each time I started to succeed, each time I began to excel, you would remind me.”

“Remind--?”

“Not to go too high.  Not to try and fail.  You laughed at me each time I achieved something, and I want it to stop.”

Bond freezes, unsure what he’s done and unwilling to ask.  “Is that what you think?”  He walks out.

::

In a firefight in Calais it finally connects, this thought that has been half-formed, and he could laugh but for the sharp pain sluicing through the line of his shoulders.  He makes an agonized attempt at a laugh anyway and mutters, “Icarus.”

“What?”  Q’s voice is sour over the earwig.  Bond crouches behind a crate to focus.

“You thought I was calling you Icarus, didn’t you?” he asks.

“This is hardly the time or place, Double-oh-seven,” Q says, and by the frost of his voice, Bond has hit the nail on the head.

“You’re not,” he corrects.  “You’re Hermes, winged and fleet; you’re Nike, you’re victory; you’re—” His laugh is short, dry and rattling.  “You’re Eros.  God.  You’re Eros.”

“What—Double-oh-seven,” Q asks, sputtering.  “Are you okay?”

“I was not making fun of you,” Bond insists.

“Double-oh-seven—Bond, shut up about that.  Are you okay?” Q demands.  “Have you been shot?”

“No,” Bond answers.  The answer to both questions is no—a simple bullet wound would not be half so dangerous as what’s happened; he’s bleeding out rapidly, unable to do the basic surgery that could stop it—and he sinks to his knees, dizzy.

::

There are fingers, tentative and shy, on his back, on his shoulders, ruffling through the thick down at the base of his shoulder blades.  He flexes; they stop then begin their slow exploration again.

“You’re a complete idiot,” Q says from overhead.  Bond considers responding, but his mouth is dry and tastes of old copper.  He shrugs instead.  “Three pints of blood.  You bled like a stuck pig.”

“Bird,” Bond corrects, wincing when Q’s fingers skate the bruise that feels like it pierces him through.

“You broke a blood feather,” Q continues as if he hasn’t heard.  “I didn’t know you—”

“Where did you think they came from?” Bond asks.  Q’s hand stills again.  When it resumes, it’s shaking.

“Are you going to explain?” Q asks.

“No.”

“Did it hurt when it happened?” Q asks.

“Yes.”

“Good.”  There’s something soothing about the combing motions; Bond can feel by the movement of his hands that Q is grooming him, his touch careful and deft as he straightens the feathers, scratching gently to remove any loose fluff.

“Medical staff is going to kill you for getting my dust everywhere,” Bond warns sleepily.

“Medical staff can get stuffed,” Q replies absently.  “You nearly died.  Thank god for the extraction team.  One of them has a sister that’s…he recognized the signs and pulled out the feather.  You would have a body part that acts like a tap to dump your insides outside, wouldn’t you?”

“They’re hollow,” Bond says even as he starts to drift.  “So they don’t weigh too much for me to carry.”

“Your head is hollow,” Q replies but Bond is already asleep.

::

The medical bay is dark when he wakes again.  Someone has tucked him into a bed that’s barely more than a field cot, face-down to give him room to spread.  Q is standing near the window.  Bond lets his wings flutter.

“You should be asleep,” Q tells him softly.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bond replies.  Q takes a sharp, wounded breath and Bond looks away.  “What time is it?”

“Late.”  They’re going to dance around it, then.  Bond wishes he could roll over; he settles for huffing dramatically.  “Gone two,” Q adds, quiet.

“Have you slept at all since the mission?” Bond asks and Q laughs, more puffs of sarcastic breath than anything else.  “Go home.  Sleep.”

“No.”

“Q.”

“No,” Q repeats.

“Stubborn ass,” Bond accuses fondly.  “You’re going to collapse.”

“I want to—did you mean it?  What you said over the headset,” Q asks and Bond considers pleading blood loss but answers honestly instead.

“Yes.”

“I want to show you something,” Q says abruptly and then he’s unbuttoning his cardigan, each plastic button slipping through its hole mechanically until Q is folding it over the back of the single visitor’s chair in the room.  He’s started on his tie and button-down before Bond can make more than a token sound of protest; in the dark, Q’s thin chest nearly glows with the light from the window.

“As much as I appreciate the thought—” Bond says.

“Do shut up, Bond.”  And then he turns.

They start high, closer to the nape of his neck than his shoulders, following the line of his trapezius to drip down the backs of his arms almost to the elbow: simple, lined feathers, elegant in their detail.  The lines aren’t faded but they’ve been there a while; Bond wants to slide his fingers along the stark black ink and follow where they spill into the small of Q’s back.  Between the tattoos, the knobs of Q’s spine are even more delicate, even more fragile looking than he’d imagine possible.  “Q,” he says hoarsely.  They’re beautiful.

“I have been fascinated by wings since I was a child,” Q says, so soft that Bond can barely hear him over the rush of his own blood.  “It was one of puberty’s cruelest punishments not to grant me my own set.”

“They’re rare,” Bond reminds him needlessly.  “Painful, like teething, only instead it’s your back, your skin and blood and flesh and bone that’s ripping and reshaping itself.”

Q smiles over his shoulder, amused.  “I know.  I’ve watched everything—did you know there’s a timelapsed video of a girl’s eruption?  Incredibly illegal to film these days; it’s from the sixties.  You could get away with a lot more in the name of science then.  I watched her eruption like it was pornography: the way the pin feathers pierced her skin and the blood…it was like sex, the virgin defiled—I’ve watched everything out there about you.  About what you are.

“Did you know it was courting?  What you were doing?” Q asks, and oh.  Bond’s breath catches, because of course it was.

“No,” he answers truthfully.

“I believe you,” Q hums.  “You would accidentally propose marriage, wouldn’t you?”

“Apparently so,” Bond agrees.

“Will you settle for a date?” Q asks, and Bond soars. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Book cover for On Flight by Beaubete](https://archiveofourown.org/works/774411) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)




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